All my black socks are missing. This is because they have been turned into gloves — long-sleeved sock gloves à la Audrey Hepburn, except not Audrey Hepburn because ninja. Long-sleeved black sock ninja gloves. To go with the skinny black fleece pants and one of the several black T-shirts borrowed from my drawer, or Rachel's, their necklines and general bagginess corrected with as many safety pins as possible, otherwise known as All the Safety Pins, ever. Plus the sword. Plus the mask — originally fashioned out of an old, too-small rugby shirt with a rip in it, which we cut apart and ran through the sewing machine before cutting a slit in it through which to observe the world with catlike accuracy. And then there was the second, official, ninja mask, courtesy of the neighbours down the street.

Ninjas prefer not to wear underwear, unless their mothers make them. And then they do so only unwillingly, brandishing swords and homemade plasticine knives and so forth. And make no mistake, a ninja might just shiv you over the underwear thing, so choose your battles wisely.

The black socks that are not gloves are, well, socks. Obviously. Pulled up high over the black ninja fleece pants with the rip in the knee. Preferably safety-pinned to the fleece pants, assuming there are any safety pins left over. If there are not, then commences the elaborate ritual un-pinning and redistributing and re-pinning of the black ninja T-shirt safety pins. But only after the ritual Asking Repeatedly About the Possibility of Any More Safety Pins, Ever.

Ideally the borrowed black ninja T-shirt would be safety-pinned to the black ninja fleece pants as well, creating a more seamless, full-body ninja catsuit sort of look, except for some of obvious concerns regarding bathrooms and expediency.

Plus yellow Crocs.

Sometimes, ninjas go to the mall with their mothers and don't wear their masks, just the pants and socks and the T-shirt with All the Safety Pins, and of course the mothers are so used to this daily uniform that they forget that the general public may not be, and they watch in careful amusement as heads turn and less-informed mall patrons turn slowly, in a full 180° rotation, to observe what appears to be a six-year-old boy in tattered black clothing held together only by safety pins. And the yellow Crocs.

All of it, except for the weapons, is placed carefully into a plastic grocery bag each day. The plastic grocery bag is, in turn, placed carefully inside the red school backpack, and is taken out immediately upon commencement of after-school care so that mild-mannered first grader by day becomes CREEPING! STEALTHY! NINJA! by late afternoon and early evening until bedtime. Whereupon re-commences the ritual un-pinning until the ninja slumbers, always with one eye open.